Children of Slytherin: Precious
by princessangelita
Summary: An idea I got from my Children of Slytherin books. Read those before you read this. Summary: Snape's version of a particular scene from Book 2 and what he sees afterwards.


**Precious**

**By Princess Angelita**

**SUMMARY:** Just a small story from my Unfathomable Passion trilogy. It is Snape's thoughts as he dies, and what he sees as he comes to say his final goodbye.

**DISCLAIMER:** I don't own Harry Potter or anything connected with him. They all belong to J.K. Rowling. I'm just borrowing them.

**RATING:** Mature, for violent and sexual content

I am lying here on this cold stone floor, my life blood gushing from me like a scarlet river. I feel no pain, just a sense of finality that is somehow so much worse than my wound. My head is turned to my right, and I can see her. My Amarana, my perfect precious one, she is fighting to get to me, to try and save me, the one she loves. I wish I could send her the message that it is too late. I know I am going to die. I watch her wield the sword like she does her wand. Perfectly. Gracefully. It is something I have always loved about her. When her passion is aroused, whether through love or hate, it radiates from her like a shining sun.

She is fighting the blood traitor, Ginny Weasley. This is the second time they have fought with swords. The first time, the blood traitor almost killed my precious. I can see this time, it will be the other way around. I am right. I watch with pride as Amarana slices the girl almost in half. She falls to the floor in a pool of blood like the one I lay in, her blood-colored hair spread about her, combining with the blood so well I can't tell where one begins and the other ends.

Amarana is coming towards me, fear and love in her face. I try and smile, but find I cannot move any part of my body. She says something to me that I cannot hear. The sound of blood pumping furiously out of my body deafens all other noise. "You cannot help me, my love," I try to tell her. "You cannot replace the blood I have lost. I am leaving you." Even without telling her, I think she knows. Her face looks up to the heavens, and I know she is screaming. Her hair tumbles about her white throat . . . as it has in the moments of passion we shared.

Passion . . . Our passion. I remember her in our bed. She was no longer a virgin. I had taken that from her only a day before. She gave it to me willingly. But her hair, tumbling around her . . . it reminded me of when she was on top of me, driving herself to a passion that, although not new to her, she remained hungry for. As she reached her peak, her head dropped backward, her face to the sky . . . as it is now . . . but she was moaning then, not screaming her pain. I believe we made Evelina that night, sometime during the lovemaking that lasted until dawn.

I was addicted to Amarana. Obsessed with her. Obsessed with her white skin, her perfect breasts, her little waist, and the parts that made her a woman. Addicted to her body as well as her mind. Her intelligence. Her cunning. Her love, loyalty, pride, courage . . . everything about her. She is the perfect woman. The perfect lover, thinker, companion. The one who gave me a perfect daughter. Evie, plump and precious, with big blue eyes like her mother. Black hair just beginning to curl. It saddens me that I won't live to see her first birthday.

I feel myself falling into the void. All thoughts of my daughter are gone. All I can think about is my Amarana. I try to tell her goodbye, that I love her, but I cannot. All I can do is stare at her face. It is the last thing I see as I leave my body. I am drawn into the void. Into what I know instinctively as a halfway place.

I don't know how long I am there before I am released to take my last look at the world. I know where I will go. My soul shoots through millions of stars, through a blur of houses and cars and people, deep into the English countryside to an old manor house. It is dark and storming outside as I approach it. But still I see her. Outside on the balcony that is attached to the room we spent our honeymoon in. My Amarana.

She is standing in the cold, clad only in a thin nightdress, the sleet drenching her skin. I find I can enter her thoughts. They are focused on one thing alone. Me. Her consciousness is screaming for me, over and over in her mind. Tears stream from her eyes, mixing in with the rain as she stares straight ahead. Hating the moon, for I will never see it again. Hating the clouds that bring rain I will never feel. Hating. Hating. Yet loving. Loving something that will never hold her again.

I hear my daughter in the next room, but I have no desire to see her. My Amarana needs me. My soul embraces her, tries to tell her I love her still. I will never forget her, and what she has given me. But she can't hear me, although somehow she feels me. She begins to scream my name, over and over into the night before collapsing onto the balcony, sobbing and holding herself with thin white arms. Amarana. She is so much thinner. I hadn't noticed. I wonder how long it has been since my death.

Someone comes out onto the balcony. I am surprised that it is Voldemort. I am surprised I can even think his name, instead of calling him the Dark Lord. Without hesitation, he picks my Amarana up and carries her inside. I see him take her into the hallway, and I know he is taking her to his room. I cut through the next room, take a last look at my daughter, who is being rocked by Narcissa Malfoy. Narcissa's thoughts are full of worry, worry for Amarana and Evelina. It makes me happy she cares for them so much.

I pass through another room. Draco's room. He is sitting on his bed, thinking of Amarana. He too, is full of worry for Amarana. And for Evelina. Sadness for my passing. I feel something else from him. It shocks me a bit. It is love. I hesitate in front of him, this feeling of Draco's drawing me to him like a fly to honey. This young man, whom I have always liked, been jealous of, helped, lived with . . . this man Draco loves Amarana as much as I do. But his isn't like mine. Mine was fulfilled. Mine was returned. Draco's is tinged with longing, sadness, hurt . . . all the pain of unrequited love.

It hurts me. I want to help him. But I cannot. His feelings pain me so much I hurry on my way, flying so quickly I don't even recognize the people in the rooms I pass through. What I see when I get to Voldemort's room shocks me. Voldemort is sitting in a chair, with Amarana sitting on the floor, her head buried in his lap. He is stroking her hair, his gray-white fingers combing out her wet ebony locks slowly. I watch them for a long time, the one I love and the one I called Master, one emptying her emotions, the other offering comfort.

Amarana leans back on her heels, looks at Voldemort with her ocean blue eyes, crying for him to end her pain. "No," I want to say. "You must live." Voldemort stands, takes her hand and pulls her up. "Amarana," he says. "You must live." It hurts to hear him say it. He pulls her over to the bed, makes her sit. I hover in front of them, watching them stare at each other.

Voldemort tells her they share the same ancestor. Explains that the two of them are the last of the Slytherins. "Because of this," he says to her, "I will make you more than just a relative. I will make you part of myself. Our blood tie must be made closer than relatives, closer than lovers, closer than life and death." He stands, pulls her up to stand before him. I can see the future. It horrifies me. I can see what he will do. And I can't stop it. I can't tell her how this will affect us all.

"No," I scream. "Don't touch her." I desperately try to stop it. Voldemort grasps her chin with his cold hand, raises her head, leans down to touch his lips with hers. It is the first time he has ever kissed a woman, and the sensation is wonderful to him. Even though the kiss is not what it seems. Before he does what I know he will do, he takes his time, opening his mouth and letting his tongue touch hers with passion. Passion that should only be mine.

Her hands run up his chest and around his neck. More wonderful sensations he has never felt. Voldemort hesitates. I had prepared myself for what he was going to do, not realizing that now there will be more. I watch in agony as he draws her nightgown over her head. Runs his hands along her body. She touches him lightly on the cheekbones, runs her fingers down his face to the ties of his robes. They fall to the floor with a soft rustle.

Voldemort is thinner than any man I have ever seen. But he is still a man. He lays her on the bed, positions himself on top of her, still feeling the wonders of her lips on his. He touches her, wondering at the softness of her flesh. It is his first time, he thinks, and will be his last. He is happy that the one and only time will be with the only one he thinks is worthy.

His lips move down her throat to her breasts. He marvels at the emotions he stirs within her, the passion rising from her that only he can control. Her moans come softly at first, then louder. He pulls away to look down at her glazed eyes, her white skin, wondering how he, Voldemort, could bring such a look in her face. To his surprise, her hand caresses his cheek, trails down his chest. She rose up and kissed him, trailing kisses down his throat, his shoulders, and his chest.

It is the first time someone has voluntarily touched him, and the effect it has brings on emotions he has never felt. She is not repelled by his body, the color of his skin, his red eyes or snakelike nose. He throws himself back on her with passion. Now his passion, not hers. Her legs open for him, and he enters her. I catch his thoughts and they are incomprehensible. They run on and on, cramming together, rushing around in his mind as loudly as the sound of my blood leaving my body when I died.

I can't help but watch. I don't know how long it is before Voldemort's passion is spent. And then it happens. What I had been dreading.

Voldemort puts his mouth over my Amarana's, and casts a spell. A piece of his soul, the seventh to be ripped from him, enters her consciousness. And she accepts it. In exchange, she gives him a piece of her own. She can do it. The death of Ginny Weasley allows her to. She does it gladly, willingly, not knowing what the consequences will be. Amarana will never die, because Voldemort will never die. They are each others Horcrux. She will never be with me again.

Sadly, I watch as she falls asleep, this new Amarana. I watch as Voldemort lies beside her, watching her as I watch her. When the night grows old, he takes her back to her room and lays her in her own bed. He covers her up gently. Then he is gone.

I watch my love, my lost love, until the morning comes. She wakes up. She says a goodbye to me, feeling new powers growing within her. Then she goes downstairs and has her breakfast, feeding Evelina at the same time. Converses with Draco and his family. Voldemort comes down and she greets him warmly. She does not seem to remember everything that went on the night before. She only knows who she truly is, that she and Voldemort are each other's Horcrux . . . and she is now in control of her emotions. Last night will never happen again, but the damage has already been done. With infinite sadness, I kiss her cheek. I soar upwards. Take one last look at her, my perfect Amarana.

I enter the void. This time I keep going. She doesn't know I will mourn her loss forever.


End file.
